


The Adventure of the Dying Private Investigator

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Watson and Holmes (Comics)
Genre: Brief drug references, COVID-19 References, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Jon Watson has been working in Midtown, far from Convent and far from Holmes, until a desperate call from Mrs. Hudson brings him back to 221B Baker Street, Harlem.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Jon Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 24
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020, More Holmes





	The Adventure of the Dying Private Investigator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starfishstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishstar/gifts).



_I still don’t understand how that got you on Stroud’s shit list._

_Ah. Well, I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning the part where I verbally eviscerate the officer who had done the initial investigation. He’s in Buffalo now, so we used Spyke. Toward the end of the call, he confirmed his idiocy by suggesting we stop bringing City issues to his neck of the woods and ‘liberate’ Upstate._

_That’d do it._

_I may have provided him with an excellent example of how wearing a mask in no way causes one to, as the meme says, ‘loose’ their freedom of speech._

I laughed. _Except it kinda did. She took you off the case, right?_

_Only temporarily. And I am already well into the research phase, in any case. There is much to be learned about the death of Victor Savage. The only trails I’m following right now are on Facebook, don’t worry._

_Well, glad you’re staying inside and finding a way to keep busy. Let me know if anything interesting turns up._

_I will. In the meantime, use these precious hours to get some sleep on those fancy Egyptian cotton sheets._

I sighed. Sleep. What a novel concept **that** was.

They’d sent me down to Irving to cover some staff shortages. Apparently Convent was deemed “adequately staffed” and a few Midtown hospitals were “critically understaffed”. Of course the fact that the number of infected patients in Harlem was growing at a much faster rate didn’t seem to be relevant to their decision making process, and I could only hope subcontracting employees would somehow give us the money we’d need to keep the doors open. I accepted the reassignment with as little cynicism and as much grace as possible and was pleasantly surprised to find that reassigned interns were being put up at The Plaza (closed to the public) for temp digs. Nice. And Sarabeth’s was bringing free lemon ricotta pancakes to my door every morning, complete with a little card thanking me for my service-- something I was glad was in a note instead of face to face. Military or medical, I still haven’t figured out a good way to respond to that. It also asked me to let them know if I had any dietary restrictions. No way the bodega where I always got my morning coffee on the way to work was gonna weather this like Sarabeth's, but if you’ve got those backup funds you could do worse than use ‘em to keep the cooks (though Sarabeth’s probably had chefs, not cooks) cooking, have the busboys do delivery, and feed some medical workers in the process.

The hospitality was intended to make me feel welcome and supported, and it did. It did. But it also reminded me of how much I missed my clinic. Convent was always like a second home to me, especially back when my first one was a car. And ain't nobody bringing brunch to my brothers and sisters at Convent. Still, those pancakes made the best dinner ever. A little treat before I tried for a few hours’ sleep and the day started up on me all over again.

Missed Holmes, too. No telling what he was doing to our place, now that I wasn’t around to keep an eye on those more expansive experiments which eventually took over the whole living room. Just like his damn sticky notes when he was working a case.

Right after that whole Gold King deal at Throgs Neck Bridge, I started feeling like someone needed to record all the work Holmes had done. Told myself I just wanted to write it down so we could get all those yellow bits of paper picked up already. They were everywhere. Scraps of paper, hell to pay if I touched them until it was all over. Till then, he’d arrange them in small sections, then lines, then change the order up, and claim it was all a System. He’d get his own special kinda snippy every time I tried to sit down for some food at the actual **kitchen table** because I’d have to move a sticky note over to put down a plate.

Whenever a case ended, he would go rest up and leave them all sitting there, lookin’ all, yellow, and that was when I finally decided to organize them myself, transfering the details to a laptop and dumping the rest in a shoebox. He had to file all the original notes away himself of course, in a huge index on the top of a rickety bookshelf he was barely tall enough to reach. He had some kinda order that only made sense to him. Alphabetical, more or less. I’d at least have the table reclaimed, until next time. But really, I just wanted to preserve it all somehow. The memory. Look it over later.

The Gold King (real name: Neil Gibson) always seemed creepy to me. Reminded me of Crazy Eddie, the dude on those commercials back when I was a kid and we’d go visit my cousin in Minneola and watch TV all day long. You know, the one whose prices were **insane**. Gibson started The Gold King discount jewelry chain somewhere out West, and then moved here. LA, maybe? Might have been Las Vegas, because they said his wife had been a showgirl at the Rio. Jilted wife frames the Au Pair by making her own suicide look like a murder. Drugs herself and falls off the bridge. When the body finally washes up at Little Bay Park, article in the Post said, “Even fears about the potentially deadly coronavirus couldn’t stop a small crowd of people from gathering around a dead woman who may have jumped from the Throgs Neck Bridge on Friday, though police have not ruled out foul play.”

The whole deal with Holmes spotting the chipped phone case, tho. If you took out the fact that real people died, it’d make a damn fine story. No one would ever know the details, but I always felt like so much of how Holmes figured these things out was fascinating. Fuck, I was fanboying the kat and I knew it. Just getting rid of the sticky notes. Yeah, right.

The sparseness of the hotel felt all wrong. I sat down at the minibar and enjoyed my pancakes. Then I brushed my teeth, peed, slipped off my sweatpants and left them in a pile on the bathroom floor (my scrubs stayed at the hospital, tossed into the hazmat laundry hamper before I changed in the locker room and made my way here). I went to bed. Holmes was right about those sheets. He’d just be starting his day right about now. I fluffed up my down pillow, rolled on my side, and did what I usually did when I found myself thinking about Holmes a bit too long. I called Omare.

I am a father. An adult. With adult responsibilities. I’ve got no room in my life for contemplating whatever the fuck it was we had going. It was more than a friendship, less than a relationship, and it was a bad thing to be thinking about when I was trying to rest.

Omare was doing remote schoolwork, but his teachers had been merciful and gave him a packet at the beginning of the week, due by the end. He did it all by Wednesday, and it was Friday. I think. Time had lost its grip on me already. It didn’t help that I hadn’t seen him since the lockdown. I couldn’t fathom exposing him to that risk, not when he could ride this thing out with his mom.

“Hey, my man, how you doin’?”

“Ok, Dad. I got all my stuff done, so Mom said I could play some games.”

“Which ones?” He got quiet for a bit, and I knew he was deciding which ones I'd approve of and which I wouldn’t, and it made me smile. At least he was growing up right. Marie’s new man wasn’t Dad yet. I decided to help a little. “I like Doom Eternal.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“But I can’t say I have much time for it right now. Score high for me, ‘k?”

“Sure will. Getting ready for church, now.”

It was Sunday already. Damn.

“Ok, well, be good for your Momma, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ok, Dad.”

“Ok, bye.”

Holmes would have said, “Anyone saying ‘ok’ that many times was most definitely not.” And we weren’t. Not really. None of us were during this whole damn crisis. But we’d make it through. We’d make it through.

So, that’s where I was at, anyway, that was my mindset for all of that first week at Irving. Work, eat, sleep, and hope everyone I cared about stayed home and stayed healthy. I would usually manage a few hours rest, work a shift, and walk back to The Plaza. Look forward to my pancakes. And that was my day...until the time the phone rang just after I got home.

I barely heard it and wrapped myself in the robe as I hurried, dripping, out of the shower.

“Jon, I know you are wanting to just go between work and the hotel, but--“

There was a lot of quiet on the line.

“--But I think, maybe you should come and see Mr. H.”

I damn near dropped the phone. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong and I had let the lull of routine and my own insecurities stop me from keeping up contact. I sat down on the bed, feeling the water pool beneath me into the thick cotton robe. “Tell me everything.”

“These last three days he’s just been sinkin’, and I finally told him, ‘that’s it, time to go to the doctor’s.’ This morning, I could see the bones practically stickin’ out of his face and he said they’ll turn him away anyways, but I really don’t think they’re gonna. I swear he looked like he-- Well, I told him if he didn’t go see a doctor I’d call an ambulance and they'd just drag him outta there. And that’s when he said he’d see you. Told me to call around 9. Told me to say he was sorry to cut short your sleep--”

“I’ve been sleeping fine enough, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll head right over. There isn't much I can do, but maybe he’ll at least listen to me.”

“I tried to give him some soup, but I only made it far as the door when he yelled at me to stay away, so I left it on the table and headed back down. Didn't look like there was nothin’ in the trash can or the sink. Not a dish round the room neither. Could swear to it he hasn’t had nothin’ to eat or drink in days and I’d guess he hadn’t even got outta bed.”

“I bet he did. He went out, didn’t he. Earlier in the week.”

“To the docks. Said somethin’ ‘bout tracking a shipment. He wore his mask when he left, I know that.”

“I’m on my way.”

Easier said than done. With less trains running, the subway was gonna be some circle of hell, and even if I could hop a bus it would take a while and let me off with a walk still ahead of me. A taxi wouldn’t save me that much time, plus there weren’t many around right now, even on the edge of the Park, and waiting for a Lyft that wouldn’t drive right past a 6’3” 225 pound Black man in a mask, even one flashing a medical ID, didn't seem like my idea of a good time. Come to think of it, the med badge might even make it worse. I was beginning to see the strategic move behind putting people up in local hotels that were walking distance. My kingdom for a goddam bike.

I pulled out my phone. 25 minutes to bike, but I’d make it faster, and two showing up on the rack at Grand Army and Central Park South. Good thing I renewed the CitiPass last summer.

I made it there in under 20. God, he looked like hell, even from across the room, but that didn’t stop me from heading straight to him. As I hit the doorway, he yelled at me with what sounded like the very last bit of his voice. “Stay back!”

“Why?”

“Because I **want** you to,” he croaked. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No. It isn’t.” It was sad, seeing him trying to project authority and failing so miserably. I took a step forward and he tried again to stop me.

“Just...wait...please.”

I stopped.

“It’s for your own good.”

That was absolutely the wrong thing to say, and I think he knew it the second it left his mouth. “Look, Holmes. I have spent the last god knows how many hours--“

“Nearly thirteen,” he said.

“Ah, still yourself enough for that, so that’s something. Thirteen or so hours treating infectious patients. Do you think, for one second, that I am not going to have a look at you because I am worried about my own health?” It hurt, honestly. It hurt and I let him know it hurt. “You are sick. You need care. And I’ll do right by you. As your doctor, and as your friend.”

I saw his eyes, glistening with fever, harden. It was a cold, determined look I’d only seen once or twice, but I knew whatever he said next was gonna be hard to hear. I stopped moving and met his eyes with as equally fixed a stare as I could manage, exhausted as I was.

“Well, if I am to get medical care… let it be from a real doctor.”

Fine. Fucking fine, Myrna Reszke.

Myrna Reszke was the meanest, most thoroughly unpleasant person, no, living creature, I had ever had the misfortune to meet. She was a patient during my final year of rounds. Geriatrics. No one wanted to go near her. She’d rip anyone trying to help her to shreds. Each and every one of us thought it was some unspoken, personal thing. Until someone finally brought it up over lunch. And it was at that moment that the supervising physician came in and then, we all knew. She hated everyone because she was in tremendous, continual pain.

So. Instead of saying what I was thinking, which was somewhere between, “You are right. I always told you I was just an intern. **You** were the one who kept calling me **Doctor** ,” and “Fuck you, you fucking fuck,” I said, “Look, Holmes, I will take you to the best physician I can get my hands on. I will take you to Dr. Anthony Fucking Fauci himself if you will just agree to go see someone.”

“They won’t be able to help me.”

“I will go with you and make damn sure that they do.”

“No, no, no, it’s--” He stopped for a moment, as if he had forgotten what he was about to say. “It’s not Covid-19. It isn’t any form of Corona or Influenza. This is...different.”

“Let the hospital decide what it is. I’ll call an ambulance. You just--”

Holmes jumped out of bed and knocked the phone out of my hand. I stood staring at the spot on the carpeting where it had landed, then turned to watch Holmes catching his breath. That was it. I had had enough. “You don’t understand what you're doing. So. We are past words now. I’m going to do what needs to be done.” I watched him panting out of the corner of my eye as I slowly picked up the phone.

“I’ll do it. I’ll get treatment. Not from just any hospital though. And not just any doctor. There is only one man I need. One man who can cure me. Will you get him?”

For a second, I had thought he was going to say it was me. That one man. But I got back to reality real quick. I nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Give me an hour. Then I will give you an address.”

“And you will cooperate with this doctor?”

“As you say, absolutely.”

Holmes closed his eyes and I moved a little closer when he did and tried to get some more intel on his state. Dry lips and skin, clearly dehydrated. Thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. I couldn't place the look in those glossy eyes. I’d seen it before, when he was lost in thought, but this time it looked more like he wasn’t quite connected to reality. Reminded me of opiates, and I didn’t like it one bit.

I looked around the place. It was a mess, as usual, and there was some sort of lingering chemical smell which definitely wouldn’t help his lungs any. I went to the kitchen to find the source. The table was a fucking disaster. Half-filled beakers, a stack of test tubes crammed in a flask. Makeshift centrifuge with spilled liquid and gloves and goggles cast aside, showing utter contempt for any safety precautions. My head pounded.

Man, did I ever need some coffee.

I started to move the goggles and gloves off the table to clear some space when Holmes hollered again. “Dammit, man! Are you trying to have me get up and run over there? You know I can’t stand when you mess with my things, but there you are, just waiting ‘till I‘m weak enough for you to go fidgeting around when you know it makes me anxious and all I want to do is get some goddamn rest! Didn’t they teach you that at med school? To let your patient relax and to not antagonize him!? Leave my things alone! As if it makes a goddamn bit of difference what the table looks like when you are just about to leave! Now, go wash your stupid-ass hands and get the hell out of here!”

It startled me. The yelling, but more the fact that Holmes never cursed if he could avoid it. Composure was so very important to him, and he had lost it many times over.

“I’m sorry, I just--”

“Nevermind. Change!”

“Change?”

“Yes! Change! Do you have any? You’ll need change. Pennies. Copper is resistant to pathogens. Do you have any pennies?”

I emptied my pockets just in case. “No, Holmes. I just got a twenty on me. No coins.”

“Jackson won’t help us. He’d only make things worse. Leave him here with me. I’ll see that he doesn’t cause any trouble.”

I took the twenty out of my wallet and left it on the table. “Who do I need to bring?”

“Smith.”

I thought he was making up a name at random. “Holmes, there must be at least--”

“Culverton Smith. Here a few months. From the UK. 13 Lower Burke St.” He struggled to get the words out between clenched teeth. He wouldn't say so, but it was clear to me he was in a lot of pain. “Go. Bring him here. Make him come here.”

I was afraid to leave him alone in this state.

“It won’t be easy, Watson. He doesn’t like me. I know him from an investigation. He was the suspect. In the death of his nephew. He might not want to help me, but you’ll make him come, won't you? You’ll make him break the stay-at-home and come here?”

“I’ll bring him here if I have to drag him out of his house.”

“Why don't you ask him if he's going to stay? Why don't you ask him if he's going away? I saw them live at Oyster Bay, you know. How are those tenders, Johnny?”

I just stared. Probably a spiking fever. I could only hope it would break. I suddenly felt like leaving him now would be a bad idea.

“Knew you wouldn’t fail me, Watson. You’d never. Never would. Would not. Could not.” As he closed his eyes and drifted off, I thought I heard him mutter quietly, “In the rain. No, the one about the stars. Read me the one about the stars,” and he made a half-waving motion before his arm collapsed of its own weight onto his hip, startling him to full alert. “Watson! You are here, and he is not. Did he not come?” He turned his head aside, eyes downcast, and simply said, “Oh.”

God, that hurt my heart, the surrender in that tone. I couldn’t wait another second.

“No, no, I am just leaving. Right now. I’ll be right back. With Culverton Smith.” I brought up Lyft and typed in the Upper West Side address. At least it wasn’t too far. While I was waiting, I saw Niecey sitting on the brownstone steps two doors down. I called out to her, and she looked up from the phone Holmes had gotten all the kids in his network.

“Hey, Doc! Heard Mr. H is pretty sick. He got the ‘Rona?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty bad off, Niecey.”

“You gettin’ someone?”

“Yeah.”

A car pulled up, and we headed toward Amsterdam. Thought I was seein’ things ‘cause, looking back toward 221B as we drove off, it almost looked like she was smiling.

When we got there I cursed at having abandoned my twenty to Holmes’s delirium and begged the driver to wait until I came back with another passenger and promised I’d tip more than the fare at the end. I was about to explain that I was a physician seeking the opinion of a medical expert and was fishing for my ID, but one look at the house at 13 Lower Burke was all I needed for him to know there was some serious potential money involved. I have no idea what he thought I was up to, pulling up at the smuggest goddamn building on the Upper West Side, and that was saying something.

“Take your time. No need to explain,” he said. “It ain't like I’ve got many customers right now.”

I nodded and rang the bell, and the doorman eyed me dubiously. I flashed my badge with my thumb over where it would have said MD. “Doctor Watson here for a consult with Doctor Smith.” He smiled slowly, like he knew something I didn’t. It was unnerving, but I kept my cool. “He won’t be expecting me, but I assure you it is an urgent matter.”

I just saw the outline of a short, thin, hunched man through one of the panels of a great bay window to my right. “Staples! Who is it and what do they want? Oh, nevermind, just send him away already. This is the time for my research, and I shall not be disturbed.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Smith.”

Mister. So that’s what was so funny. Leave it to Holmes, the unofficial detective, to know an unofficial doctor. I had one shot, and I wasn’t gonna waste it. I pushed right past the smirking doorman and I was inside.

Dude was ugly for sure. Ugly wrapped up in an old fashioned velvet smoking jacket. Bald head with a huge round face, menacing grey eyes glaring at me under tufted eyebrows, but his body was tiny and frail. “What is the meaning of this?!”

I never thought I’d hear someone say that in real life. That and the lingering accent combined was surreal.

“Sorry to disturb you, but this can’t wait. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is as close to death as anyone I’ve seen and I’ve seen plenty of that as a--” He wasn’t listening.

“Holmes? The private investigator?”

“Yeah.”

He cleared his throat. “Ill, you say? I’m so sorry to hear this. I don’t know him well, of course. Just old business. Well, best get him into a hospital, if they have the capacity. Covid can progress rather rapidly. I don’t know why you are calling on me. I don’t have a spare ventilator in my **gar** -age.”

“He says it’s not Covid, and that you are the only one who can help him.”

“Ah. It is nice to have one’s expertise acknowledged. I have studied a great many rare diseases.” He glanced at the badge I was still clutching in my hand and gave me a vicious smile. “A degree is but a piece of paper when set against a lifetime of study. But if you know Holmes, perhaps you also know this. He is a talented man.”

“And a very sick one.”

“How long?”

“About three days.”

“Delirious?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it would be inhuman of me not to offer my expert opinion, wouldn’t it?”

I shifted to a military stance and waited. It seemed very possible that Culverton Smith would choose to be inhuman.

“Yes, I will join you.” He put on his coat and made his way to the door. “Oh. I should bring a few things.” He grabbed a black leather satchel in what seemed a lot like an afterthought.

When we approached 221B, Smith seemed pretty agitated as the car slowed. Niecey was still hanging on the steps, playing some game on her phone. She glanced up at us both, frowned, and went right on tapping without a word.

I let us in, and Holmes hadn’t moved since I left him, though now his eyes were closed. I automatically tracked his breathing. Steady enough. His lips and the skin under his eyes had that distinct purplish tint I was afraid of. It hadn’t been there when I left. I wondered if this English dude with a face like a snowman in a blizzard even knew what that meant, or if he just figured signs like that wouldn’t show on dark skin and wouldn’t even bother to check. He might know a lot about viruses, but I knew what they did inside people. I tried to get the point across without forcing him to acknowledge his deficiencies. “The indicators of cyanosis around his lips and eyes are new symptoms that must have emerged during the time when I went to get you. He had labored breathing when I left, though.”

He looked surprised. “If it is what I believe it to be, it is progressing more rapidly than I thought. I’m glad you brought me here.” He moved forward and halted at the foot of his bed. “Mr. Holmes? Can you hear me?”

He didn’t respond.

“Holmes? It’s me.” I moved forward, but Smith put out a hand to stop me. I tried to keep my voice steady. “I brought him for you.”

“Just. Smith,” he whispered. I wanted to pretend I didn’t hear it. But if he would see this guy, if he would listen to him just a little bit better if I wasn’t there-- Well, I owed him that much out of love, if nothing else. Whatever he needed. I told him I’d be back, and waited at the door. Right outside. With my ear to it. Couldn’t hear a damn thing.

I gave up on that and started pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. I should go in. I might not ever see him again. But if he wanted me out and would listen to Smith, that might just be his best chance at getting help and recovering. Of course Neicey saw me, and I guess that was interesting enough for her to put down her phone. I wished she had just kept right on playing her games. I didn’t feel much like putting on a brave face. My best friend was in there dying, and I was shut out.

All I could think of was how I had been avoiding him lately. Even before I was sent to the other hospital. I’d let Marie go, but I’d been flirting with Felicia more than ever. The closer I felt to Holmes, the more I backed away. Haven’t played that game with myself since just before Marcus. I knew what it meant, and you’d think 20 years later I’d’ve finally gotten past that. Not that Felicia wasn’t worth flirting with, but -- Fuck it. Time to be brave. This was Sherlock Fucking Holmes and he probably already knew. Probably was waiting for me to say something. Would’ve been nice if he had dropped a few hints for me though. Like what? What’s a hint, anyway? Was nice when you could just wear those green carnations or stick a damn handkerchief in your back pocket. Yeah, right, like they had it easy.

Maybe we should go out. Like, really go out. At a fancy place with candles and all that shit. I think just suggesting it would be enough. He’d know. And he’d say yes or he’d change it to somewhere else and I could read into that. Ok, fine. If he gets through this, we get through this, that’s what I’ll do.

Niecey had been watching me the whole time and finally decided to come over.

“He told me we should watch for the light.”

“What?”

“In that window. He said when the light goes on, go round the corner and get Detective Stroud. He said he was hoping you’d be staying right here and to tell you, but to give you about 10 minutes before I came over. Or until you stopped pacing. Whichever came first.”

“That bastard. He’s faking it. He’s fu-- he’s faking it. That’s why he made me stay away. That’s why he wanted Smith alone. He’s trying to get a bragger’s confession.” I stomped up toward the door. “That ain’t gonna hold up in court, Holmes!”

The light went on, and Niecey took off and came back lightning-fast with the Lieutenant and Detective Morton, the brawn of the precinct. They wouldn’t need him, not for a guy that weak, but it was pretty clear they intended to take him in. I gestured my arms in an ‘after you’ and they opened the door while doing their Miranda. I followed close behind.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say again, after he was cuffed. And it sounded just as ridiculous this time.

“The best way to act a part is to be it. Mrs. Hudson, you can come in now, they’ve got him. And I could really use a pitcher of your switchel, if you don’t mind.” He turned toward the Lieutenant. “And I’d handle those goggles rather carefully when you place them in the evidence bag. Maybe use the chopsticks next to the kitchen sink. I suspect what they are coated with also weakens nitrile.”

Smith was seething, but remained perfectly still. “I don’t know what kind of lies he and his maid over there are going to feed you, but that’s all they are. Lies. His word against mine. And whatever he tells her to say.”

“I’m not his **maid** , I’m his **landlady,** thank you very much. And I heard the whole thing. How you waited till SARS hit in Sumatra to kill your nephew with some rare thing from your collection, and then came here. You can’t keep Mr. H away when he’s on to you, so you tried to do the same thing to him, now that you had the chance.”

“The box, Smith. It was a box with eye protection from Healthspring Protective Equipment. Even if I **did** think I’d ordered new equipment, which I **didn’t** , Healthspring is a copyrighted name. They’re an insurance company, recently merged with Cigna. That was lingering in the back of your mind when you needed to create a return address label for an imaginary business. We always seek the familiar by instinct. It doesn't matter whether you confess or not. They have you in custody and now we know where to look for our evidence. The chain is complete. All I needed was to make sure I wasn’t missing any minor details about how you murdered your nephew, like some false alibi you’d brag about, which we would then have to take into consideration. But once Watson-- Watson.” He looked down at his hands, his fingers still showing the tiniest bit of what I now knew was Mrs. Hudson’s purple eyeshadow. “Lieutenant, are you finished? I need some recovery time. I assure you no food or drink has passed these lips in three days.”

Mrs. Hudson brought the pitcher and a glass and left for 221C, and Smith was escorted out, determined to keep quiet till he could make his phone call.

We were alone.

“Watson. You have many things you are remarkably good at, but I hope even you will admit lying isn’t one of them. It was a terrible thing to have done, but I saw no other way.”

I closed my eyes and just stood there a moment. I tried to smile. “It was a good fakeout. From over six feet away.”

“I couldn’t risk you getting any closer.”

“Eyeshadow?”

He nodded. “Vaseline. Beeswax. Pretty much all improvised from Mrs. Hudson’s bathroom. I couldn’t just go out to my usual costume shop. Closed.”

“Yeah.” I gestured toward the kitchen chair. “Is it safe?”

“Yes. Though you see now why I couldn’t have you clearing the table.”

“Yeah.” I sat down. “What about the glassy eyes? Visine?”

“No. That part was the easiest. I just thought about how you’d feel during those ten minutes outside.”

It got quiet. Real quiet. I let it stay that way for a while longer. He still deserved to wait a bit.

“I have never been this pissed off, or this relieved. Please tell me Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in on it the whole time.”

“Oh no. I needed her to bring you, and you to bring Smith. I only informed her it was for a case when I went upstairs to use her makeup right after you had left. Well, the eyeshadow anyway. I had already removed”

“Stolen.”

“Stolen her Vaseline and beeswax candles.” He tried a smile, but it didn’t last. “She was a bit shocked to find me in relatively good health, though still quite weak. Going without food and water for a few days has less of an effect on me than it would on the average person, but it still takes its toll.”

“I bet you’re hungry.”

“Starving. A quick takeout from Sylvia’s might be in order, if you’d care to join me before you head back to the hotel to get some rest. You’re on in six hours.”

“Or, you could join me instead. Actually, I‘d been thinking, when I was out on the sidewalk for those ten minutes, five if you don’t count my trying to listen through the door, how sometimes you really need to live a little, you know? So, I’d suggest One If By Land, Two If By Sea. Shame we’d miss out on the atmosphere, cause I’ve heard it’s really something. Has quite the reputation. I’ve never been there. You?”

“I’ve...heard of that place, yes. I’d agree that it does. Have a reputation. Can’t say that I’ve, ever been.”

“Yeah. I think it might be high time for both of us to give it a go. I mean, we can’t dine in, which is a damn shame, but we could make the best of it and have it sent to the Plaza. They’d still fancy it up if it was delivery. Pretty sure.”

“I suppose we could. Yes.”

This was getting easier. Almost fun now. Might as well lay it on thick. “Nice place, my hotel. You were right about the sheets. Not sure if they’re Egyptian cotton or not. Bet you’d be able to tell in a hot second, after that fiber experiment of yours. That is, if you wanted to check out my bed. Maybe not, if you think you wouldn’t find it all that interesting.” Seeing his eyes dart around while he ran it through whatever processing thing he did made me feel light enough to keep it up just a bit more. “Also bet you didn’t know that Sarabeth’s brings me pancakes every morning.”

His eyes stopped wiggling and he looked at me.

“Is that so? Well. You’re correct. That **is** interesting. **Very** interesting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some random notes: I chose bold instead of italics to preserve the comic-book style. Sorry if it is annoying. Holmes’s rant makes a lot more sense if you know “Tusk”, specifically the extended cut which actually has “How are those tenders, Johnny?” in the song intro. (If you didn’t know that, don’t feel too bad. Jon didn’t either.) At the time this was written, universal masks were not required. I decided not to update that.  
> FINALLY! I can now than the wonderful people who have betad for me and encouraged me in this work: Vulgarweed, Anarfea, Arete, Lyriccoloratura, Storm Caywood and special thanks to Dmellieon, who reminded me I had somehow managed to leave Fleetwood Mac out completely and that just wouldn’t do!


End file.
